But why would he sorrow for me? My grief belonged to me and me alone, and I could not, did not want to share it with anyone. I did not mourn my life, for it had not been a life worth living. But I mourned the lives I would not have: my sister’s, my brother’s, my family’s. I would never see Josef find acclaim as a musician. I would never travel with K?the to see the great cities of the world. I would never again hear my name upon their lips.
The Goblin King gathered me in his arms, and I let him carry me back to my barrow room. His way through the Underground was short and straight, but he could bend time and distance to his will, after all. He set me down before my door, still locked with that absurd contraption. Then, with a courteous bow, the Goblin King disappeared.
It was a pleasure to open that door and turn the lock, hearing the solid thunk and clang as the mechanism slid into place. I had done this so many times to my own heart; it was a pleasure to do it to the world.
I was empty. A vessel filled with nothing. Whatever spirit filled me had fled years ago, leaving me with ghost and body alone.
I lit a candle.
I had heard acolytes at the nunnery held a candlelight vigil the night before they consecrated themselves to Christ, much as young brides did the night before their wedding, before they consecrated themselves to their husbands. But how far was I from His grace, deep beneath the earth? While I had dutifully attended Mass with the rest of my family on Sundays, I had never felt the presence of God or His angels. It was only when I heard Josef play that I believed in Heaven.
I would endure this vigil alone, with no prayers in my heart. For what could I possibly pray? A fruitful marriage with lots of children? Could I even bear any, a monstrous thing half-human, half-goblin? Or could I pray for something altogether more selfish, like the life I had never had, a life lived to the fullest?
So I prayed for nothing. I knelt with my hands clasped before the candle, and watched as the flame burned low into the night.
*
I say goodbye to the world above.
Farewell, Mother, careworn and abiding,
Farewell, Papa, faded brightness hiding.
Farewell, Constanze, I took your tales to heart,
Farewell, Hans, and your fumbles in the dark.
Farewell, K?the, I’m sorry I did you wrong.
Farewell, Josef, may you play ever-long.
Farewell, all, to you I give my love.
THE WEDDING
There was a bright light in my bedroom when I awoke. I did not remember falling asleep, but at some point during my vigil, I had stirred from my place before the candle and sat by the hearth in my room. I watched the flames flicker and dance before my eyes and composed a hymn—my first—humming and working at the melody until I had gotten it right. I had had no paper on which to write down my thoughts, but it did not matter. That hymn was sacred to that night and that night alone—no one would ever sing it, for God or for me.
The light shone down from the fireplace, slanting in like the morning sun. I squinted. The painting of the Goblin Grove above the mantle—which to my last recollection had depicted a dark landscape—now showed the woods in all their daylight glory. It appeared as though snow had fallen, and the sun shone crisp and bright on its blank whiteness.
I frowned. The light was shining through the painting into my barrow, like a window to the outside world. I got to my feet, bones aching, fingers poised to touch this miraculous thing.
“Tut, tut, what did we say about touching?”
Twig and Thistle were in my room.
“What did I say about knocking?” I returned.
“You didn’t,” Thistle said cheerfully. “You wished for a door and a lock. You didn’t wish us to use it.”
“A problem that shall be rectified immediately.”
“Your wish is our command, Your Highness.” Twig bent her impossibly long and slender body into a bow. The tops of her tree-branch hair scraped the barrow floor.
“My wish is your command regardless,” I said mildly.
Thistle made a face. “Hmph,” she said. “She’s not Her Highness yet.” Her black, beady eyes took me in, from the top of my disheveled head, down my tearstained cheeks, to the tips of my unshod feet. It was hard to discern any recognizable emotion in such a strange and alien face, but I thought I detected a hint of contempt.
“She will be soon enough,” Twig replied. Her words sent a bolt of—of some strong emotion through me. It was not quite fear, but it was not exactly pleasure either.
“Are we—are we to be married soon? The Goblin King and I?”
“Yes. You are to meet His Majesty in”—Twig and Thistle exchanged glances—“the chapel.”
“The chapel?”
“That’s what he calls it,” Thistle said indifferently. “He holds on to his quaint human rituals, but it’s not as though it really matters. What matters,” she continued slyly, “is the consummation.”
I blushed. Of course; in the world above, consummation also sealed a marriage. Then I frowned. Quaint human rituals. I thought of the austere young man in the portrait gallery with the cross and violin in his hands.
“How … how did he—His Majesty come to be Der Erlk?nig?” I asked. But it was not the question I held in my heart.
How had that austere young man become my Goblin King?
But neither Thistle nor Twig answered my questions, voiced and unvoiced. Instead, Thistle produced a fine silk dress out of thin air and ordered me to put it on.